


The Lord of Gifts

by Doitsuki



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horror, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Slavery, Slow Burn, Trauma, Violence, the usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annatar is a traveling scholar, learned in more than the folk of Middle-Earth could ever know. His journeys take him many places, but first as his strength allows him he must make haste through the Greenwood. In that forest however, malice of a different vein to his own throbs with life... and he would see it slit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thy kingdom come

**Author's Note:**

> This... is just a thing. It shall develop on its own.  
> 'Choose not to use Archive Warnings' should warn you enough on the horrors that are to come.  
> Tags and pairings and even rating will update in time. :)  
> [pls scroll down for disclaimer](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/profile)

Well into the Second Age is Arda after the most bloody and sorrowful wars have passed. Lindon lies safe to the West while nestled amongst the Misty Mountains is Eregion, the land of wealth and promise. Further away now East is Greenwood the Great, and there has never been a larger forest in Middle-Earth than it. There the trees grow tall and strong, untouched by any taint save for the will of their King. Their cruel, cold Elvenking Oropher, his face snow and hair of mithril a glacial fall down his rigid back. Today he sits upon his throne of carven wood, crowned in woven black twigs. Befitting the Winter, he wears a spiky mien in both headpiece and visage. At this time of day the light in his exalted throneroom flushes shadows from his high cheekbones, hooked nose and prominent brow. Silver dances in his thick, dark brows yet his white eyelashes never flutter to blink. He is asleep.

His servants watch him, afraid to roll their eyes even as their King slumbers. He sees all, knows all, hears all – at least when he is not screaming lesser voices out of their owners’ throats. Now, the only sounds to be heard are the soft breaths of guard and servant alike, standing in the throneroom statuesque as lightning cracks the skies above. The cavernous Woodland Realm fears no natural wrath. But Dalion does. His knees quiver at the booming thunder which ever so reminds him of his Majesty’s voice, loud, deep and absolutely terrifying. A soft whimper escapes his trembling lips as a tree screeches in agony outside, ripped from the ground by Manwë’s own wrath.

“Hold yourself, Dalion. ‘Tis only a storm.” Tall, strong Quintus with his shining spear in hand nods towards the shaking servant. His long blonde hair glows eerily in the dim light of lightning’s pause, just enough to catch Dalion’s attention.

“What has wrought the ire of Manwë thus? He is angered, surely- eep!” Dalion squeaks then claps a hand to his open mouth as another strike lands outside. He grieves for the forest that has to deal with all this while he and the other elves remain safe inside the realm. Quintus shakes his head and smiles. With the flat side of his spear, he pets Dalion’s back.

“Shush, I beg of you. The King is asleep, as even a blind man can see. Storm or not, his wrath shall be worse than the eruption of Thangorodrim if you wake him.”

“I am glad to not see such things…” The whisper has barely passed Dalion’s fingers when they soon go into his mouth to be chewed upon. He has little nail for result of nervousness but still he nibbles in fear. Shining emerald eyes gleam with malice, fixed upon him. Oropher’s face moves no further.

The eyes of every guard remain fixed to the throneroom’s door, the only entrance there save the windows lining the walls. Said windows do not offer safe passage up or down the hill, as the Woodland Realm is built there with the palace so high only light and wind can touch it. Now, rain beats upon the glass panels, crying to be let in. Oropher shows mercy to no tears, be they of elven grief or from the Gods themselves. He rises after many minutes, watching Dalion squirm. Only as the lightning flashes does his rumbling voice spill from thin, pale lips.

“You….” Down the stairs he walks, standing to full height. He easily towers over every Silvan in the realm, his stature said to have rivaled that of Thingol (but never proven). “Quivering wretch. Shall I cut out thy tongue to cease its needless flapping?” Now he stands on the same ground as Dalion. The servant does not feel worthy. He bows, then kneels. The floor holds his wide grey eyes.

“N-No, your Majesty, I beg you-” Dalion cannot help but plead for his life and he wonders if he will remain to tell his dearest son _goodnight_ in the next hour. Oropher’s hand plunges into thin brown hair and grabs all of it, so large and firm is his grasp. Up comes Dalion’s head, his aching neck cracking with it. Oropher’s emotionless face twists into a sneer, one of the only expressions natural to his eternal stoicism.

“Thou bideth, hm? Wilt thou cry so pathetically when I slice strand from strand away from what little muscle there is in thy tongue, then cheek, until thou art so weak as to not keep thy own _jaw_ attached to thy FACE?!” Oropher’s manic shriek stills the fluttering heart of Dalion, and soon there is a limp elf on the floor. The King throws what hair has come away in his hand aside and kicks Dalion aside. The hour is late, and he has had enough of lightning flickering across his eyes. His bed calls, firm and warm as always.

Through the twisting halls he walks until he comes to his chambers, they being cloaked as he in darkness and silence. Deep greens and rich, inky black spreads in silk and dark wood procured from the most secret of locations. The Silvan believe their King deserves only the best, and shower upon him all he asks for. The servants who serve him do so willingly, but out of greater fear than respect. Oropher cannot tell the difference, his mind simple from battle and perhaps a few hits too hard from the ground’s unexpected kiss. He cares not, and lumbers into his room with steps dragging in the absence of prying eyes. There warming his bed is an elf he sleeps with, but dares not couple. It is Thranduil, his dear son of sixty years and with the mind of a precious child. Oh yes, Thranduil is grown in body, well enough to hold the place his mother once kept. His voice however carries endearments to his father alike to a toddler’s ramblings.

“Ada…” he whispers, still in the land of dreams yet sensing Oropher’s presence beside him. “Mnn…”

“I am here, my precious spring flower.” The King slips into bed after discarding everything on him but his skin. There like a marble statue he lies with hands at either side of his straight, powerfully built body. Moonlight finds little softness to his crisp, cruel edges as the black curtains in the room remain drawn. Once more Oropher closes his eyes. His presence beside Thranduil comforts the elfling, whose distress melts into sweet, warm visions. He wonders if his son will ever grow into maturity, past the age to find a wife yet clinging to his father’s side.

 _‘Better this way than another_ ’, he thinks. _‘No harm shall come to my son while I draw breath.’_


	2. If you go out in the woods today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> took me long enough lmao here have a second chapter - this will either make it or break it, as will the next

 

The sun rises and snow melts from atop heavy, broad leaves. The Greenwood creaks with the dull ache of last night’s battering as if little more than a common whore to the Lord of the Skies’ whims. Still the ancient trees stand, save one that has split in two. The morning patrol gazes upon it with sadness and whispers in quick prayer. Then it is off to march through the sludgy grass that slicks with wet snow, sloshing around thick leather boots. Sivlir heads the patrol, his hair and eyes a yellow-grey matte befitting a weary old Sinda. He is a few centuries shy of Oropher’s ancient majesty but says nothing of his heart’s encroaching despair. It is easy enough work wandering the woods where nothing ever goes wrong. Save nature’s wrath, no Orcs or unseemly folk dare wander these parts. Tales of the Greenwood’s guard must have reached outside ears. There is no way the rest of the world can lack curiosity towards such a grand, wild forest.

Sivlir holds up a leather-strapped hand. Everyone halts behind him, including those in the trees. Slowly he looks from side to side. Sniffs the air, twice after a deep draught.

“A foreigner…” he whispers, voice husky and suspect. “West.” His gesture for _come_ is heeded by all and the hunters follow their leader. It is two hundred and fifty paces West that they come across a sight both enchanting and frightening – a waterfall sparkles in the sun and there in it is a body, face down. A woman it appears with golden blonde hair fanning out like weeds upon the surface! Sivlir jumps into the lake and promptly finds himself submerged, several feet below.

 _‘Ah, shit.’_ he thinks, staring up at the sun filtering through the clear water. _‘I’d forgotten how deep this thing is.’_

The woman’s eyes open. Sivlir draws breath, choking beneath the weight of such an intense stare. Bright orange irises with catlike slits glow in shades of fire and smoke.

 _‘I am no maiden.’_ says a voice in Sivlir’s mind. ‘ _Perish your thoughts as you too shall die.’_

Rooted underwater, Sivlir does not float and his hunters back away from the bare, giggling sorcerer.

“Oh, my apologies!” From rose petal lips comes a voice so light and musical it reminds of the Ainur, singing in speech. “Did I startle you? Merely relaxing, I was. Come, do not gaze at me so. We are kin, are we not?”

A lone elf steps forth. He points his dagger at the figure dripping wet. “You… are no kin of ours. What of our leader, Sivlir? He is yet beneath the water.”

“Who?” The sorcerer waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, one that banishes thought of Sivlir from all minds but his own. His eyes gleam as does his flesh with the surge of magical energy. “You worry too much, fair one. Tell me, what might a scholar such as myself do for you fine folk today? Exchange a few favours, perhaps?”

“What would you have that we want?” Braver, a hunter without weapons drawn wanders close. The nude figure before him appears not a mere scholar and he indeed senses arcane shenanigans on the air.

“I have everything… and nothing.” Showing emptiness yet with a body so luscious and full, the creature of open beauty flourishes both hands. “I am Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. Forever at the service of you and your realm.”

All eyes are upon Annatar as he clothes himself in rich red and gold robes, a high collar flaring out around his slender neck. His fingers shine, bejeweled. Then he smiles.

“I will not hurt you.”

The hunter keeps a dagger by his side, as do his comrades. He extends a broad, gloved hand to Annatar. “We shall take you to our King, and see if you are who you say. His Majesty knows and sees all. Including, some may say, into the heart of evil itself.”

“I do not know why you suspect me!” cries Annatar, his lovely voice pitched high in false distress. “Ai, you are in need of fine wine and a good rest. Just look at you.”

“Quiet!” The hunter will take no insult from foreign lips, and holds little love for the snickering of his fellow elves. “All of you.”

As the Lord of Gifts is lead through bushes full of ice-tipped leaves and shivering insects he thinks to himself. The minds of these folk are easy enough to manipulate – while distrustful, they are not as hardy as the Noldor when it comes to suggestion of will. His tests have proven this, undetected and successful. Replacing immediate thought is easy enough. He shall try planting ideas next.

It is a dull, chilly afternoon that Annatar and the elves escape when they enter the Woodland Realm. Torches by either side of the great gate warm stiff, numb flesh. The grip on Annatar’s upper arm tightens. Nameless and many, the Silvan glare. Annatar is escorted like a true prisoner, under surly guard and civilian watch. He smiles.

‘ _Look at all these little fools. Those who would forsake the Valar in favour of what? Trees, lies and secrecy. They know no luxury. ‘Tis… sad.’_

Along dull gold rock paths he travels. The Woodland Realm’s caves have neither shine nor ore – it is a rather foreboding ambience the rough-hewn walls exude. Tones of yellow and brown spatter across every far surface that Annatar can see – there are no rails nor ropes near on these paths to save him from a fall. Here, it is comfortable yet intimidating. He has never seen anything like it.

The tall elf before him steps aside, and cognizant of his surroundings, Annatar blinks. There is the infamous Mad King, he who has fled Doriath and slain countless along the way. Annatar does not remember him from his own days in the First Age’s wars. He’d his own problems to deal with back then.

Oropher’s slitted green eyes zero in on Annatar, roving up and down then back up to linger on those molten amber eyes. Finally there is a trespasser in his realm, and it is a pretty one, too. He tilts his head to the side, his curly bangs falling out of place by his ears. Annatar notes slight wrinkles, reads the shadows, and makes his move.

“A surprise, o great King, that your folk would handle a Lord of my prestige with such roughness.”

Oropher’s face doesn’t move. Annatar’s line of clever phrases falters, backs up and rethinks. Then, slowly, the King speaks.

“Prestige thou claimest, but of thee I have heard naught. Weighted words for so delicate a figure.”

Annatar balks. _‘Is he… **flirting** with me?!’_ This assumed game is one he knows well, and excels at to a frightening degree. He can see Oropher’s gaze lingering at his open collar, and turns his head just a little to spill his gorgeous hair across. “I do not seek to make a name for myself, your Majesty. I am Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. I come for wisdom, and to impart the same.”

“Mhm.” Down, down Oropher’s gaze trails. Lingers. The depth in Annatar’s voice suggests masculinity but here is a figure so feminine, it defies expectation. Oropher decides to care little and waves his hunters away. They obey without question, but concerns linger in their minds. Annatar senses it all and dispels everything without batting an eye. “Annatar. From which lands dost thou hail?”

“From the far West, where the Teleri reside in Eldamar.” Just by looking at Oropher, Annatar knows he is a Sinda. No other kin has such light hair and skin, and definitely not eyebrows like _that_. “I am Vanyarin also, with the favour of the Valar bestowed upon me.”

“And what have they so graciously given thee?” Now, Oropher is curious. He knows little of the Valar save the legends and basics of creation. If the figure before him is to be believed, there might just be an intellecutal edge he can gain above all the rest in his realm. Lore, we might say, has never been his strongest point.

Annatar bows low, masking view of his neck for just long enough to undo the top clasp of his robes. When he rises, prominent collarbones and smooth, healthy skin is revealed in a decent dose. Oropher does not hide his interest. “I would be honored to share it with you, so that your kingdom may prosper and be blessed. However, as with all Elder knowledge, it will take some time. Might you be so wise as to allow me more… comfortable arrangements?” Then, Annatar dares to wink. As he does, the greatest force his mind can muster shoves straight into Oropher’s, eye contact and attention maintained. Because Oropher is listening, it is easy enough and Annatar sweeps the empty, unguarded space in there with rolling glee. At once, the King understands that standing for a lengthy conversation is inappropriate, and he would rather recline on a nice, long velvety chaise. He is seated himself, but it is Annatar’s will that pervades his own. He rises.

“Come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Oropher seems two dimensional, he’ll only seem more so in the next chapter. He appears developed in later chapters, or at least I’m hoping for that. Pls. He’s like an OC to me XD MY SON


	3. Thoughts of a light surprise

Annatar is lead through the golden palace doors and does not appreciate the looks every guard and their spear give him. He has little say in the matter at the moment, though. First, he must gain favour with the King. He already has the Sinda’s ear. Now, all he needs is his heart. And what, he wonders, is the way to an old warlord’s heart? It is either food, sex or blood. The very basics.

On the walls in the hallway there is a sore lack of decoration, so different to Annatar’s former accomodations. He is used to portraits, bodily nudes and glorious renditions of the face just about anywhere. His own face, of course. His Master had never been fond of his own scarred visage. Annatar was beautiful. He still is. Only here, he does not own the place and there are no sculptures of his naked torso sitting about for viewing pleasure. A few vases and generic treasures lie around, with no effort made to straighten or otherwise beautify the arrangements. Oropher doesn’t seem to care, and flings open a door to the right. Through the arched doorway he walks, and Annatar notices his massive shoulders just _barely_ fit. That stature, that _grandeur_ … it reminds him of Melkor, when the mighty Vala still walked the earth. Annatar banishes the comparison from his mind. He stands behind a simple, stupid elf. Not a skinny, frail prisoner type or aggressive Noldo, but an elf all the same. He closes the door behind him. Oropher throws himself on a couch and beckons for Annatar to take the one opposite. Just as confident but a little more refined, Annatar sits ass first then drapes an arm over the armrest, head resting on a soft black cushion. The rest of his body stretches out. He unconsciously tightens the fabric of his leggings to expose his shapely thighs. Seduction is second nature to him, the first being cruelty. Oropher is known for the latter.

“So tell me, my King…” Annatar drawls in his low, delicious voice. “What of the Valar’s craft would you welcome into your soul?” He is careful not to use the familiar Quenya terms for discussing such things. Thingol’s ban on the language was contagious.

Oropher makes himself comfortable on the couch before finding a position where eye contact is easy, and his voice is not constrained. “What is there to know?”

“Everything you’ve ever wanted. The Valar have been kind to me.”

Then, Oropher is silent. Carefully he considers Annatar’s words. The sorcerer can see the gears turning inside his head, rusty but determined. Visions of Oropher’s dreams float by. On the surface, there is a need for greater control, always control, over his emotions, his subjects, his life, and in general, himself. Then, below, he seeks companionship. Someone to go hunting with. A fellow bloodthirsty warrior with strength just a little less than his own, so sparring might come as a challenge he can win. Even deeper, Annatar probes. Oropher’s face twitches with discomfort. Deep, deep down… Oropher does not want to be alone. Annatar has to clench his jaw to keep from grinning madly.

_‘Pathetic.’_

Oropher blinks. _‘Ah, was that me…? I… I know, but… no. Now is not the time for reflection. Pathetic I may be, but before this… elf… I am strong.’_ Annatar’s words in his mind echo his own. Validated in his suppression, he decides.

“Strength.”

“Oh?” Annatar runs a hand along his own arm. “But just look at you! Never have I seen muscles so powerful, nor eyes that tell tales of such hardship. You are plenty strong I think, your Majesty.”

Oropher is not used to flattery and finds it strange, false, even. He flexes and nearly rips the fabric of his sleeve. “Hast thou seen me in battle, perhaps? Many elves carry a body like this, one toughened by the years of recent war.”

“But none as mighty as yours.”

Annatar receives no thanks for his sugared words, but instead a rather sour, serious face.

“Do not speak of what thou knowest naught. Perhaps one day in thy stay here, thou shalt witness me in training. For now… appearances will suffice. If not strength, then suggest for me an equal.”

Annatar nods as best he can in his lazy, elegant position. “Then… power?”

Oropher indicates for him to continue with silence. His eyes are fixed to Annatar’s own. The glow he observes has a depth unlike any substance he has seen.

“Power of the purest sort is a wonderful thing, your Majesty. The power of hand to work at craft, or the power of will to persuade resistant minds. There are also illusory games one can play with the shadow if learned in sorcery enough…” He only suggests to see what Oropher will say. Annatar will not share his Melkor-given power with anyone, oh, _no_. He needs to hold on to it for as long as he can. However, what he regenerates with rest can easily be distributed. The impression will be good enough for Oropher. It has to be.

“The mind…” Oropher has always held interest in having others bow to him, be it forced or willing. “What can one do with that?”

“Many things. Shall I give you this power, then? You may experiment with it as you see fit. I am but a humble scholar, here to offer guidance in the Elder arts.”

 _‘Art. That sounds fancy. Yes, I shall add this to my skillset and see the world fall, or at least my enemies tormented to insanity.’_ There are few enemies within tracking distance of Oropher that still draw breath, of course. The thought however of eliminating them with his mind is fantastical and seductive, so Oropher accepts. Annatar stands.

“I will need to make contact. May I?”

“Mhm. Go ahead.” Nobody has ever touched Oropher enough to cause him discomfort and live. He does not trust Annatar, but is confident enough in himself to remain calm. “Try anything strange however, and thy head will part from thy shoulders.”

“My, my. Such bold words. Have mercy on this poor soul.” Annatar’s sarcasm flies over the King’s head as intended. He kneels, and Oropher sits to hunch over. There is that square jaw and thin mouth, that hooked nose and those wary eyes. Hauntingly beautiful, and entirely unreadable. Annatar presses his thumbs to Oropher’s temples and delivers knowledge first – telling signs of influence - then the power to magically enhance negative intent. He doubts Oropher will mind-control people to love him. No, as it is, the Elvenking is all about fear and deference. Annatar knows this and pushes forth ideas of servants becoming slaves, and a life of luxury complete with downcast gazes and quivering words of worship. As the images flicker through Oropher’s mind, he registers a note of arousal.

 _‘Oh, he likes that, does he?’_ Annatar’s fingers massage a bit. There are servants being tortured, complicit in all sorts of debauchery as Oropher would request. _‘Such a basic, sadistic bastard. Here, have some more ideas. Use them to your will. They are only immortal lives, after all.’_

Oropher does not hear the words but before his eyes, he sees. Blood. Scars. Whips. Tears. The things he believes as a King, he should be seeing from his obedient and reverent subjects. Not just the servants.

_‘With this power of the mind… they will see me as a God. No matter what I do… they will support me. This is what I need. This is good.’_

**Author's Note:**

> dont kill me if I randomly drop this lmao


End file.
